


Bruised Silken Sky

by amyfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Chains, Half-Sibling Incest, Halls of Mandos, Kissing, M/M, Past Character Death, Post-Canon Fix-It, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 05:33:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8359177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: Fingolfin, after death, goes to seek his brother in the Halls of Mandos.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [uumuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/gifts).



> The title is from 'Bad' by U2.

Death felt like nothing more than all the world fading into muted greys, darker than Hithlum's summer mists. The call to come to the Halls of Mandos was faint but clear, and Fingolfin hesitated only a moment before responding. 

He'd thought, somehow, that his brother's spirit would have lingered in Middle-earth. Over four hundred years, he'd spent many nights sitting beside the simple white stone that marked the place of Fëanor's death, talking to him. Sometimes he raged at him for leaving, sometimes he pleaded with him, sometimes he whispered broken and insufficient words of love, a secret so old that it was worn and threadbare in patches like a much-loved garment. The thought that his brother had heard none of it chilled him. 

It would all have to be repeated, and Fingolfin only longed for the time and space to do it in. He turned toward the West, where a trace of fire waited, and followed it rather than the call of Námo. Time swirled around him in broken eddies, and he entered the Halls, flying like a lodestone toward the magnetic presence of his brother. 

The Halls were dim and foggy, the roiling ceiling resembling nothing quite so much as a silken sky, the colour of a bruise. 

Fëanor sat on what appeared to be a long stone bench. It looked vaguely like one he remembered from one of the gardens of Tirion. His hands were chained together, face cast downward, and Fingolfin's heart burned hot with rage, for his brother did not look at all well-treated. 

"Fëanáro," he whispered softly, sinking down beside Fëanor, a hand on his shoulder. 

Fëanor turned toward him, eyes going wide with recognition. "Ñolofinwë," he said. "Who would have thought you had so much fire in you? I thought, half-brother, you were made of ice." 

Fingolfin smiled. This felt familiar, long-missed. "So comes fire after ice," he said. "But you burned, brother, and now you freeze." 

Fëanor tugged at his own bonds. "I was placed here by Námo," he said. "This is not of my own will nor my making." 

Fingolfin bent, and Fëanor turned so that he could look at the fastenings which bound his hands together. They were of forgéd iron, hard and heavy. Beneath them, Fëanor's hands looked bruised from his attempts at getting out. 

A cry of rage and despair slipped from Fingolfin's mouth before he could quell it, seeing those bruises. "How should any dare set you in bonds?" he demanded, and dropped to his knees on the ground before Fëanor, kissing the knuckles of his hands, sudden hot tears spilling out of his eyes and splashing down onto the iron chains. "And how shall I release you?" 

Fëanor looked down at him, a warmth coming into his eyes. He took a deep breath. "I know not how it may be done, but you are not obliged to follow me into the same bonds, and you will assuredly be placed into them, if you draw Námo's attention." 

Fingolfin's mind was still afire with rage. "He will not be the first Vala I have contended with then," he said, low and fierce. "Nor the strongest." 

A smile broke out on Fëanor's face, and he bent toward Fingolfin, who realised only at the last second that Fëanor meant to kiss him. Their lips met, and Fingolfin tasted the salt of their mingled tears in the joining of Fëanor's mouth with his own. For endless breathless seconds Fingolfin was in a place of longed-for bliss where nothing existed save the touch of his brother's lips. 

He was jerked back to the Halls of Mandos by a feeling of cold drifting over him, like fog appearing from nowhere on a sunny day. He turned, reluctantly, to find Námo standing there gazing down at them impassively. 

"Do not touch the prisoner," Námo said, voice dead as a shout in fog. He was robed and cloaked all in grey, and at his waist hung a belt of dark cloth. Attached to that belt was a fine chain that bore several keys. Fingolfin rose from the ground, looking Námo in the face. 

"It is my right to touch my brother as I see fit," he said, more calmly than he felt. 

"In my realm, you have no rights save those I give you," Námo rejoined. 

"Then we'll depart from your realm and trouble you no further," Fingolfin said, making a grab for the keys at Námo's belt. 

Námo's hand was that of a skeleton, blocking his way. Fingolfin reacted without thought, fist clenched, punching upward in the direction of the bony face. His hand made solid contact, and Námo staggered backward several steps, vanishing into the mist. 

With his other hand, Fingolfin grabbed the set of keys from Námo's belt just as he disappeared. Hands shaking, he reached for one, tried it in the lock of Fëanor's chains. It failed, but the second key he tried worked, and the irons fell from Fëanor's hands. 

Taking Fëanor's hand in his own, Fingolfin pulled him in the direction of the light, away from the dangerous grey mist. Behind them, the mist was reforming into the shape of a skeleton as they ran through formless clouds and dense fogs, always ever towards the light. 

Eventually they came a door. Fingolfin hastily stuck one key into the lock and turned it. Without looking at where they were going, he pulled Fëanor through. 

The door slammed shut behind them, the key still in it, and without further ado, vanished entirely. Light struck Fingolfin's senses like a blow and he sank to his knees on soft white sand, screwing his eyes tight shut. 

After a moment, he could feel Fëanor, crouching beside him, grasping his shoulder. "Open your eyes, Ñolo," he said. "You've done it. We've escaped." 

His eyes, when he opened them, first met Fëanor's face, and without thought, he began to smile. The light shone behind Fëanor's head, haloing him, and it took another moment for Fingolfin to tear his eyes away from that beloved face. 

Clear waves lapped the shore a few steps away from where Fingolfin lay. The sand was cool beneath him, and a soft breeze moved over his face. 

Fëanor pulled him to his feet, and together they looked about themselves. A few feet away, cliffs rose into the air, covered with trailing vines. The song of birds was loud, and there was a scent of mingled salt and honeysuckle in the air. 

No sight nor sound of any person, nor any sign that anyone else had ever been there, could be seen. Fëanor was murmuring to himself about the possible equatorial location based on the plants he could see, but Fingolfin just smiled, staring up into the blue and cloudless sky.


End file.
